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Even though I believe that one respects other’s traditions by not co-opting them, I do live in the real world.

In the real world, my partner and I are lesbians moms to a boy, my sister is married to a Catholic, my Jewish cousin has secretly (all his 67 years) wanted to decorate a Christmas tree and my son thinks that Hannukah wouldn’t be Hannukah without presents. There, you have it. A typical American family trying to navigate the traditions without losing our minds in the process.

Friday night, we started the festive weekend at the children’s Hannukah service and potluck at our synagogue. Our synagogue meets at the Church of the Holy Apostles (Chasidim Kadoshim, to the Jews). As if to show me that I am not the clueless among Jews, someone said, “It smells so wonderful in here, like pine trees!” Really? Really? Ever hear of “deck the halls with bows of holly . . . ” and the recipe, “kill a tree, attach chachkas to them, and one week later reduce to mulch. Repeat each year.” ??????

We also stayed for the adult service. It is difficult to take seriously a rabbi who has a Santa’s elves’ styled hat with a menorah on it but she did take it off when she spoke some words of Torah. It was an important drash to hear. There were three main themes: our viewpoint is imbued with our baggage, for every light there is a shadow and vice-versa and, finally, don’t accept the heroes of a story at face value.

First, the baggage. The story of Hannukah is simply the miracle that oil enough for one day lasted eight days so that the Jews who recaptured the Temple could perform the necessary re-sanctification rituals. But if it is 1948 Palestine, the story is about a military victory by a small group against mighty armies. If it is 1498, during the Inquisition, it is about the subjugation of a people. If you gather rabbis, it is about a miracle. If it is 2011, you might wonder if the Maccabees were zealots somewhat akin to today’s radical fundamentalists. (In fact, history bears that out.) So, who you are, where you’ve come from, and who you want to be, can shade the way you tell the story, and emphasize the elements.

Light of the Hannukah candles casts a shadow. For advance, there are detractors, some of whom are merely engaging in a power struggle. The shadow can be dangerous and it can be restful. The light can be the path but it can also burn. Light and shadow need each other. Success lies in the right balance. And that is the greatest challenge. The rabbi told us of settlers in the Israeli occupied territories who, whenever there is a threat to their settlement or way of life, burn down a mosque inside Israel. (Israel immediately rebuilds the mosques and other Jewish organizations provide Qurans and prayer rugs.) In the light of peace there is darkness. Darkness of zealots who use the cover of Judaism to perpetrate atrocities. Have they forgotten their parents’ and grandparents’ ordeals in Europe? How could this be? The light needs to shine a light on this darkness. These “Jews” do not deserve a place in Israel or anywhere in the quasi-civilized world.

For the first time in a long time, I was glad to to synagogue and learn about things that the mainstream media doesn’t cover. It made me think, rather than go to synagogue again, I should visit a mosque, Sikh temple or a church and listen.

After leaving synagogue, we looked up at the Empire State Building. Blue and white adorned two sides, and red and green, the other. I love New York.

Saturday, the Blogger family gathered with assorted cousins and in-laws to celebrate both traditions. In my sister’s house was a small Christmas tree decorated in blue and white with a rabbi as an ornament. Cousin Gentle was so excited because he thinks ornaments are sooooooo adorable that he wants to decorate the tree next year. I told Cousin Gentle that it had to have an irreverent theme, like that the Hasidic rabbi and the dreidel that was at the foot of the tree. He had a look of total inspiration that I believe he may have been visiting after-Christmas sales these last two days.

I LOVE how politically and religiously incorrect it was. And, of course, there was a Yahrzeit candle burning for my Catholic brother-in-law’s father who recently died. And my brother-in-law made the latkes.

Saturday night, everyone was Jewish and Christian and all was good with the world.

SOS (our son, source of sanity) decided that he preferred his former blog “handle”, TLP (the little prince). I am worried.

But I was immediately distracted by how adorable he was in his blue blazer, tan slacks, penny loafers, and bow-tie and my heart melted. Just FYI: I keep suggesting “regular” ties, but SOS (or TLP) demurs. I think because he knows the bow-tie makes him irresistible to many women (not only his moms). He doesn’t want to chance missing out on the “boob crush” hugs he gets from all the lesbians in the synagogue (hey, breasts are breasts). When he gets taller and there is no boob bonus in the hugs, he’ll probably switch to regular ties. Just a guess.

SOS lasted nearly the whole service, which is quite extraordinary for an adult, let alone a child. “E-Mom, does every word end in “echa” in Hebrew?” Almost, buddy.

The service was a mixture of celebration, remembrance, solemnity and a little irreverence (we are after all, a gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgender, queer and intersex congregation).

The Torah portion we read tomorrow the binding of Isaac by his father Abraham. I have always hated this story. A crazy father, a submissive son, and a psychopathic deity. With a heritage like this, we should start therapy in utero.

What do we learn from that Biblical story, other than we shouldn’t read the Bible to our children, especially before bedtime?

I still don’t get why Abraham was so willing to kill Isaac that the angel twice had to tell Abraham to stop before Abraham put down the knife.

I don’t understand why it is part of our liturgy except for us to be horrified by it. Our rabbi noted that the story seems to defy the requirements elsewhere in Torah for us, as a community, to teach, love and shelter all of our children. Abraham, the parent generation, is so invested in his belief that he is willing to kill Isaac, the child generation, regardless of whether Isaac has the same commitment.

I never thought of it quite that way — we say we love our children but we send them to battle the wars we decide to wage. It is as true then and it is today in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in countless other places where wars have been waged so long that no one remembers peace. We are horrified at the ghastly stories of child abuse here and yet we barely remember that we have sent thousands of other people’s children to war this year alone.

These last few days I have read the newspaper, cover to cover. Death, starvation, destruction and war games. And economic chaos, too. And political polarization and the concomitant demonization of the “other”.

Today, I have been humming One Tin Soldier, an anti-Vietnam War song from the 1970s. I didn’t remember all of the lyrics, but I did remember the prize that everyone in the parable is bickering over, killing over and claiming rights over. It is worth a listen (click on the hyperlink) and read the lyrics.

Listen, children, to a story
That was written long ago,
‘Bout a kingdom on a mountain
And the valley-folk below.

On the mountain was a treasure
Buried deep beneath the stone,
And the valley-people swore
They’d have it for their very own.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won’t be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after….
One tin soldier rides away.

So the people of the valley
Sent a message up the hill,
Asking for the buried treasure,
Tons of gold for which they’d kill.

Came an answer from the kingdom,
“With our brothers we will share
All the secrets of our mountain,
All the riches buried there.”

Now the valley cried with anger,
“Mount your horses! Draw your sword!”
And they killed the mountain-people,
So they won their just reward.

Now they stood beside the treasure,
On the mountain, dark and red.
Turned the stone and looked beneath it…“Peace on Earth” was all it said.

A friend who is slightly paranoid about being known as a friend of blogger (and ergo, SPOBFOB) and I were discussing (and, might I add, solving) the world’s ills over lunch. It is so frustrating when two people make major breakthroughs in world peace, economic policy, and moderate reformist politics and no one will let us see the President. We wouldn’t have made him take notes (he is the President); we know enough about protocol (we could write the book) to bring a short-form and long-form memoranda setting out the action points for achieving these huge global steps forward.

Not only did SPOBFOB and I have important problem solving breakthroughs, but we also took stock of the freak show that comprises the leaders of our nation. Let’s face it: Men like the game — thrust and parry, if you must — of negotiations. Women want to get the damn thing accomplished in the least amount of time with the most impact. Sure there are women who are impossible to deal with in these situations (Michelle Bachmann, par exemple) but by and large, you don’t hear women say, “let’s say this and see what they come back with” when you know full well that “saying this” will only lead to vengeful behavior and reverse any constructive negotiations up to that point. We rarely make grand pronouncements that make compromise impossible because our egos are in the way. Just sayin’.

Maybe President Obama would not like to think that he is pretty much in the same camp as John Boehner and Mitch McConnell when it comes to purposeful and constructive negotiations. Ok, so the answer is that the White House would slam the door on our advance team.

I was despondent because here we had answers and no one who would listen. I mentioned having a cable talk show and SPOBFOB came up with the brilliant idea of naming it the “Alternate View” because we look at the world quizzically and with our heads tilted, as if we were trying to understand really edgy art.

[So, this is where I go off on one of my tangents and SPOBFOB has no responsibility for anything that follows:]

We can invite our friends and family to come on the show. They represent a varied and seasoned cross-section of America. Ok, the liberal, urban/suburban, well-heeled and over-educated America. So, there would be wide national appeal. (Ok, that would be in the sovereign nation of No-Where-istan, a state of my mind (see prior blogs). But, I digress.)

Everything would be fair game, from:

did anyone really think Justin and Selena were anything but a media creation?

to: should you home school your children in places where the gay liberal communist agenda has not fully infiltrated main stream public school education?

to: should fertility treatments and surrogacy be tax deductible for same-sex couples in states where gay marriage is legal?

to: who is the sanest person in the Tea Party asylum? and is that like debating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

to: whether quinoa is subversive grain that could reduce America’s dependence on hamburgers?

People always say that two people can view the same set of events from the almost identical vantage points and have three different versions.

I posted earlier on Facebook that I was walking by a group of men outside a neighborhood bodega, “chewing the fat” about Osama Bin Laden. “How did the man manage three wives holed up in the same house for five years?” Clearly, proof positive that he was a worthy adversary of the United States of America.

I did not take that away from the unfolding events. (I will say that I was happy that his kids were able to go out and play. Judaism teaches that the sins of the fathers are not inherited by their children.)

I didn’t immediately think the wives were complicit or victims. Those kind of knee-jerk conclusions simply marginalize them as cardboard cut-outs to fit our view of women in the fringes of a culture, religion and world view we have not even begun to understand.

I also did not take away, as Herman Cain did, that President Obama may have “dithered” before making the decision. On what basis does Mr. Godfather’s Pizza say this?

Here is what I took away from this:

The president made a decision that would make him a hero if it worked, or a pariah like Jimmy Carter, if it didn’t.

The decision rocked an unsteady alliance with Pakistan, an unstable country with lots of nuclear warheads.

The killing will incite retaliation.

If Osama Bin Laden was a continuing terror mastermind, then this is what had to be done.

If he was the isolated, broken man that some videos suggest, then this was a vengeful and stupid mission with untold consequences dripping in blood.

I know you come from such a good family, with strong community values based in religious precepts, like the one about taking care of the poor and the stranger. Or the other one about not putting a stone in the way of a blind person. And even though Rabbi Hillel said, “do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” that is totally in sync with the Christian Bible.

Here’s the big problem with your budget:

No amount of spending cuts is going to get us out of the hole caused by waging war in Iraq, Afghanistan and, now, Libya.

Paying for these requires tax increases. (Remember when the GOP just put the Iraq and Afghanistan tabs on the credit card and, oops, forgot to put these line items in the budget??????)

Cut all you want from social programs, etc. Go on.

But one year from now, when the deficit is still essentially as large as it now, there will need to be a tax increase on all Americans.

All you will have done is gutted the social compact that each generation has with another: we will not leave those vulnerable in our society — the young and the old — to fend for themselves. The very social compact that makes America great.

These past days, I have been lost in the old days and vignettes from childhood.

I remember that my parents often threw cocktail parties for my mother’s colleagues in the advertising and cosmetics industries. My mother knew everyone’s cigarette preferences and she filled silver cases with the preferred brands and laid them on the coffee table.

And women had those tortoise cigarette holders that made smoking look so cool.

People drank Manhattans, Rob Roys and martinis (gin and very dry) and gimlets. People drank blended scotch whiskey and Gordon’s gin back then. I guess there weren’t that many other choices. Twists of lemon, little onions and olives were in dishes, and there was a bottle (?) of bitters, ready to finish off the drinks. My parents converted a closet in the foyer into a bar with an open front that faced into the living room.

A hired waiter passed hors d’oeuvres to men in slicked back hair and square hankies in the front pockets of their thin-lapeled suits and women (including Mom) who had Jackie Kennedy hairdos and dresses with shoulder wraps. No one dressed like Lady Bird Johnson.

We would come out in our matching pajamas and say good night. And then Mom or Dad would tuck us in bed. As soon as they were out of sight, we would creep back to the closed door closest to the “action” and listen and giggle until we were discovered and sent back to bed.

Only in retrospect, can I place the end of those heady days as around 1968. I am guessing that it all ended as a result of social upheaval from the 1968 assassinations and the Vietnam War. And because raising three children in the city was expensive.

Everyone tells me I ought to watch Mad Men. But I prefer the memories.

Yesterday, I was part of a group of colleagues entertaining an out-of-town colleague’s client who was visiting New York. The client is vegan, so we tried a highly rated vegan restaurant in Gramercy Park. Not a piece of bread for the table. There is nothing non-vegan about bread. The food was tasteless. There is nothing non-vegan about flavor. There was not enough food in a serving. There is nothing non-vegan about healthy-sized servings. Somehow even the protein sourced from non-animals didn’t fill me up. There is nothing non-vegan about a few extra pounds around the midsection. Maybe I ordered wrong because all I seemed to eat was grass and shrubbery.

Later in the day we took the client to a basketball game. There is nothing non-vegan about popcorn, french fries, onion rings, beer, pretzels and peanuts. Being vegan CAN BE awesome. Imagine being able to say the following: “Sweetie, I had to eat the fries and rings and roasted peanuts, because there was nothing else. What could I do?”

But everyone grabbed all the food I had and left me alone, waiting for some miscellaneous things, like wine and mixed drinks that were ordered. And, I was starving.

I looked to my left. No one I know. I looked to my right. No one I know. I turned around. Uh oh, a colleague on his cell phone. But, wait, I remembered that he doesn’t have such good far-vision. So, the coast was clear. I put on my sunglasses anyway.

I proceeded to order a decidedly, and possibly offensively, un-vegan hot dog and scarfed it down so no one would see. Immediately, I felt terrible about what I had done. Here I was stuffing sausage derived from mystery meat of inhumanely killed animals and we were entertaining someone who has a conscience.

Then I was sure Karma would boomerang and I would be the Lucille Ball character in a “Here’s Lucy” episode where she was at a gallery opening and she started breaking out in hives. Lucy excused herself. Then the spotlights turn on, a curtain is pulled back and there is Lucy behind the prized sculpture, scratching her hives and looking like a deer caught in headlights.

But I wasn’t caught. Except when I got home, I noticed a mustard stain on my jacket . . . .

It is hard to describe how I feel as I watch the events unfold around the world, but let me try:

say you are in a bath (reading a book, sipping red wine in the hypothetical awesomely fabulous Manhattan apartment) and you pull the stopper to let the water drain. At that exact second, you hear a big BANG from somewhere. So what do you do? You put the stopper back in the drain and shiver a little.

Powerless and with shivers of fear. (FYI: I don’t live in the hypothetical fabulous apartment, I am drinking an unfortunate Sauvignon Blanc (I don’t even like white wine) and I have no time to expand my intellectual acumen (maybe when my son is 10).)

In truth, I never thought anything was out of my control until TLP (the little prince) was born. Now, I worry about the world after I am dead because (I hope) he (and his children) will still be alive. THAT makes what we do now even more important. Because we all know that the harvest reaped in two generations will be directly related to the seeds we sow now.

My mom always believed that if you can’t change the big things, then start with the little things, but you must always, always, strive to repair the world (tikkun olam) — תיקון עולם

Here is the difference between Mom and me. Mom just did things. I, first, need a whole new outfit and work-out regimen.

Did you think I could stay so serious and not deflect my fears, hopes and dreams by lapsing into (sometimes, forced) humor? DO YOU KNOW ME?

3 times a week, get on the stationary bike for 30 minutes, but quit after 25 minutes. Don’t even break a sweat.

Think about doing sit-ups. Hyper-ventilate about the anxiety of dealing with my expanding midriff. Suck in my stomach and do something else.

Do push-ups because I actually can do them. And not the girl-y ones, either.

Do back muscle exercises because I don’t want to stoop too much in my dotage.

Talk to some people, less now that some gym friends have moved to other locations.

Notice the time and realize I have to get home.

There was a time when I could suck in my tummy, arch my back a little and my stomach would be flat and my breasts “perky”. One cannot leave on memories of prior glory. Starting tomorrow (because I am drinking wine and might hurt myself if I tried it out now):

My new, Spring, regimen, also known as SPB2 — “some pain, but buff”:

Buy some new outfits for my new gym state of mind.

Do Michelle Obama arm exercises because we all deserve to look like we could go sleeveless on national TV.

Do something cardio for 40 minutes. And actually break a “glow” but no sweat because I am becoming more genteel (and eccentric) as I age.

Stop watching the TV because next year Oxford English Dictionary will declare “pundit” a synonym of “idiot” and people who watch pundits “vidiots”.

I promise, Mom, in the midst of my self-absorption, I won’t forget about tikkun olam. For your grandson and your great grandchildren. For everyone’s children and grandchildren.

So, SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) jetted off to Rome today. They were there two years ago (and Florence and Venice in the two years before that), but got excited about our trip and decided that one can never go to Italy enough. (I believe our family has only grown higher in the esteem of IFOB (Italian friend of blogger).)

So, they are going to a country that, Thank G-d, is just providing bases for the sorties over Libya and not missiles or planes. So, there is a lesser likelihood that Italy, in general, and Rome, in particular, might be bombed in retaliation.

YES, I have gone through the disaster scenarios and I am comfortable that they are traveling to Italy.

It is a sad, sad, truth that war is only real, if — to quote a business axiom — you have “skin in the game”. Otherwise, it is a statistical variance on the number of humans in the world.

Our family doesn’t have “skin in this game”. But some of us now are closer to the “game”. And it is no longer a GAME. It is war.